


scared my love, you'll go

by everythingsace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Emotionally not physically), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Nightmares (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Crowley (Good Omens), about the bookshop fire, fluff at the end, not in the "oh no theres only one bed!" sense but in a "oh no i must protect/comfort my demon" way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingsace/pseuds/everythingsace
Summary: Crowley’s dark nails scrape at floorboards as he tries to climb to his feet, smoke choking him. Splinters surely find their way into his fingers, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, as he tries to call out. His voice feels raw, trying to push through a throat and mouth full of embers. He barely pushes himself up to his knees, his feet, while his eyes burn.“Aziraphale? Aziraphale!” His gasps burn, his hands screaming as he collapses against a bookshelf. He whispers, “Aziraphale, please…”He shuts his eyes, looking, aching, for any sign of his angel, but he can’t. He’s always, always been able to sense him, at least a slight shimmer somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, but there’s nothing.He has nothing.God, shit, he was right, it was over, and Aziraphale was gone, there wasn’t--“Crowley?”(Or: Crowley has nightmares, and Aziraphale decides to help him.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 390
Collections: Good Omens Complete





	scared my love, you'll go

**Author's Note:**

> title is based on "too good" by troye sivan  
> this is my first fic i've posted in over a year but i've been working on it since uhh. september apparently

To Crowley, it’s always been an inevitable thing.

He’ll linger.

He’ll circle.

He’ll drag his feet.

But no matter what he does, no matter how long _he_ wants to stay, he _knows_ that one day, he will be alone. He’ll still be here, digging his heels into an Earth that doesn’t mean much of anything, because one day, his angel will be gone.

Sure, Aziraphale invited him for oysters, but that’s just too good to be true. It can’t stay. Crowley’s sure the angel will quickly decide that this wasn’t the right thing to do, and he’ll stop seeing him.

Later, when they share a loaf of bread while cringing at the sound of swords scraping together, he knows it won’t last. When he asks a question, _this can’t really be what She wants them to do, can it? War after war?_ and his angel frowns, he knows he’s gotten too curious again. He knows that one day he’ll ask one too many questions and Aziraphale’s patience will snap.

When Aziraphale gives him a bright grin over a crowd of heads in a theater, he understands that one day, it’ll be the last one. One day, Crowley won’t be able to pull the miracle off, or he’ll just pester Aziraphale enough that he’ll end their Arrangement. The demon understands that Aziraphale will only put up with him for so long. 

When Aziraphale stomps away, a flaming note melting into the water, the demon wonders if this is it. If maybe the last time he sees Aziraphale, it’s in a feathery hat with awful sideburns. He wonders if his last lunch with Aziraphale had happened months ago.

When he hears “too fast,” his stupid, useless heart nearly shoves itself up his throat. There’s holy water in his hands, and the end is right there in front of him. As Aziraphale steps out of the car, his heart tries to tell him to stop, to turn around, that he can go slower. He’ll go so, so slow, he won’t even move. He’ll go backwards. But no, he can’t go backwards. He can freeze time, but he can’t go backwards. He can’t reel back his pushing and pushing, he can’t make himself less of a _demon._ He doesn’t let his heart out, he shoves it hard, deep, crushing it down until it crushes his ribs.

When they save the world, and they’re sitting in the Ritz, his heart tries to tell him that maybe, _maybe_ Aziraphale will stay, but.  
Well.

Years and years and millennia of stuffing his throat and eyes and ears with _he’ll leave he’ll leave he’ll leave_ tells him that it can’t be true, and he needs to shut up and enjoy the time he has left.

* * *

“Dear.”

Crowley freezes, his chopsticks still in the air, still halfway between his plate and his mouth. The shrimp in their hold fall comically back to his plate. 

Aziraphale’s voice is somehow both soft and hard - soft and gentle as it nearly always is, but hard in a stiff way that shows that for some reason he’s had to buck up courage to say this.

“Hmm?” Crowley asks, setting down the chopsticks, and his spine stiffens inconspicuously, though he remains hunched over the table. He moves his hands to his lap, just in case Aziraphale might notice the barest hints of tightening nerves.

Aziraphale pushes his bowl of pho aside, which- okay, this is serious, and Crowley feels every alarm in his brain, which is a lot, start going off. The heart he doesn’t even technically need is punching at his ribs, and his throat grows tight in response.

Aziraphale makes pointed eye contact, as much as he can with Crowley’s dark shades shielding his putrid eyes from view. He tilts his head, and there’s this weird smile on his lips that Crowley does _not_ like, because it’s a _sad_ thing, and it’s not allowed to be on his angel’s face _ever._

“Dear, I’ve really tried not to mention this for a while now, because I know how you get, but-” and _Somebody,_ are you supposed to feel your heartbeat in your ears? “There’s been something wrong since - well, since the _almost-end,_ and I want to help you. So _please_ tell me what it is,” says Aziraphale, his dumb, _stupid_ blue eyes radiating concern that Crowley certainly does not deserve.

Crowley blinks. “I.” He squints, sitting up. “What.”

Aziraphale sighs, looking a little flustered. He glances out the window they were sat next to before looking back at the demon. “You know! Something has been bothering you, and I really was going to let you deal with whatever it is on your own, but it’s been six months, Crowley!” He places his hands on the center of the table, one hand under the other, and his hands are soft and pudgy, golden wings wrapped around a pinky. “I want to help you.”

Crowley's stomach seems to have disappeared, along with his heartbeat. Heart still there, definitely, he feels it all swollen up, but it sure as hell is not beating worth a shit considering his entire body is frozen.

“Uh, well. Right.” Crowley clears his throat, tries to get this damn corporation to work properly, and it seems his heart has started back up, but now it’s trying to crawl up his throat. “That’s. Well… I’m fine, angel,” he says, but unfortunately, while a demon, he’s never quite been able to lie to Aziraphale. Not since he was looking at him one day on a wall and found himself spilling his thoughts on good and evil.

Aziraphale frowns, folding his hands. There’s something like hurt in his eyes, and no, no, Crowley deserves to Fall again for putting that look in his eyes. 

Crowley’s chopsticks clatter to the ground due to the force of his knee hitting the table. “I mean - listen, angel, really. I’m fine-” He waves a hand, trying to pull the words from his brain. “-Enough. I’m fine enough, okay? S’just, uh.” He leaned back, pulling up a knee to rest his foot on the edge of his chair, his arm circling around his leg. “Can’t sleep so great. Really, it’s fine. Don’t even need it, really.”

Aziraphale gives him a long look, clearly judging the truth of the statement. Finally, he sighs, pulling his hands back into his lap. “That might be true, but I have never seen eye bags so deep on an immortal being.”

Crowley huffs, sliding down in his chair to sheepishly scoop his chopsticks off the floor. “You should see Hastur then.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ve never seen eye bags so deep on _you._ And you may not need sleep, but I know you like it. Besides, even so, you should be able to sleep if you want. There shouldn’t be any interference with your abilities.” His frown deepens, and he casts Crowley a worried look. “You aren’t having any other issues with your powers, are you?” he asks.

Crowley shakes his head, miracling his chopsticks clean. “S’not what I mean. I can fall asleep just fine. It’s the staying asleep that’s the issue.” _And the fact that I keep seeing an empty, burning bookshop. You and your life burning away and I’m too late to stop it._

Aziraphale relaxes, but he’s still frowning, and _Somebody,_ what Crowley would give to just be able to snap his fingers and let Aziraphale just be happy and carefree for the rest of his eternal life. He’d give up his Bentley for that. “Oh. Is there a way I can… help?” the angel asks, clearly thinking.

Crowley can't help the smile that creeps onto his lips, soft and a little sad. "No amount of heavenly miracles is gonna fix my head, angel," he says, before finally tucking back into his meal.

That is, until Aziraphale let's out an "ooh!" noise. Crowley glances up and Aziraphale looks _delighted_ , which. This is not always a good thing, because as Crowley can attest, the angel's ideas are not always the best. (Sometimes they work out well, like when he plans that they swap bodies to trick Heaven and Hell, and sometimes, he nearly gets beheaded because he decides to get crepes.)

"What?" he asks cautiously.

"That's it! I may not be able to 'fix your head,' as you say, but I _can_ at least use a miracle to help you sleep!" says Aziraphale, looking entirely pleased with himself. "I just have to stay the night at your place."

Crowley chokes on a bell pepper. "Uh.” He coughs a few times, before he sinks in his seat again, avoiding Aziraphale’s worried gaze. “That’s really not necessary, I don’t need that,” he says. “I can deal with some rough sleep every once in a while.”

Aziraphale huffs. “But it’s not just every once in a while, is it?” he says, peering at Crowley with a knowing look. 

Crowley simply squirms.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, before _actually_ clasping his hands together. “ _Please,_ dear? I just want to help.”

Crowley avoids looking at Aziraphale for all of ten seconds before he finally sags. “Yes, alright, fine,” he grumbles. “If only because I know you’ll keep looking at me like that.” 

Aziraphale straightens, clearly proud of himself. “Oh, thank you, Crowley. I just want to help you feel better.”

Crowley very pointedly does _not_ melt into a puddle of demon goo, even if it very much feels like it is the only possible way to go forward. Instead, he simply says, quite eloquently: “Ngk.”

Aziraphale just gives him a darling smile before returning to his meal.

* * *

Crowley knows ashes. He knows the touch of them, the scent, the taste. It’s been ingrained in his memory ever since he Fell, ever since he felt his wings burn, crumbling away into nothing.

He knows smoke. He knows how it feels, filling up his lungs and his throat until he’s coughing, curling and hacking until tears are burning in his eyes. He knows the feeling of smoke pushing at his chest until he can’t breathe.

He knows fire. He knows the heat of flames licking up his arms, his wings, his legs, creeping into his body until there’s nothing left of him. Until it burns away everything that he is, leaving a dark shell of a being that’s had its life force ripped away.

He knows the cold that follows. Once everything is done, once everything is gone. The stark difference from the warmth that once burrowed itself in his chest to this cold, dark _nothing_ that sits inside him, feeling as if it’s crawling its way through his body, leaving everything brittle and numb.

He feels it all again as he crumples to his knees, screaming his throat raw because he can’t do it again. He can’t he can’t he can’t, he knows he’s told himself again and again that this would happen, that one day would be the last, but it _can’t_. 

Through the blur of tears stinging at his eyes, he sees burning pages, tumbling bookcases, broken book spines, but he can’t find what he needs, because he needs Aziraphale, the world needs Aziraphale, there’s no bloody point to anything if there isn’t an Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale is _gone,_ and in his place are ashes and smoke and flames and a deep, deep unsettling cold that’s slowly pushing itself up to his chest, past the terrifying heat and the screaming desperation.

Above him, he hears a loud creak, and he barely has time to look up before he sees the ceiling above him crumpling down over him.

The next thing he knows, he’s shivering against a cold, sweaty bedsheet, blinking wide yellow eyes at a dark wall that doesn’t belong to a bookshop. His hair is plastered to his forehead as he shakes, his arms curling around himself as he hisses to himself, _he isn’t gone, he issn’t gone, he’sss still here. He isn’t gone yet._

* * *

Crowley taps his fingers restlessly on the wheel of the Bentley, moving them enough that hopefully, Aziraphale won’t notice their tremor. 

“Well? Come on, then,” Aziraphale says, smiling happily and nudging Crowley’s arm with his elbow. He pops his car door open, nodding his head towards the demon briefly as he sticks a leg out.

Crowley gives a shaky sigh once Aziraphale’s out and can’t see him. He’ll be _fine_. He smacks a hand on the wheel, pretending it’s his own head for a moment. It’ll be fine! Crowley will go inside with Aziraphale, he’ll go to sleep, Aziraphale will ward away the nightmares, and it’ll all be great. He’ll sleep, Aziraphale will get to… do nothing but sit by his side watching for any sign of nightmare that gets through his magic. It’ll be… peachy.

Crowley huffs, smacking the wheel again, but he gets out of the car.

Aziraphale’s giving him some raised eyebrows, his _what’s the big deal_ look, and Crowley wants to vibrate and shake him. Tell him that this is a stupid idea, that Aziraphale shouldn’t be going out of his way to help him like this. That he has better things to do than worry about a stupid demon who’s got some bad dreams.

But then he looks at Aziraphale’s face, he remembers _I just want to help you feel better,_ and Someone, it’s stupid, but he’s never been good at denying Aziraphale. Plus, after all, at his core, Crowley is a demon. He’s got some selfishness in him.

“Alright,” he sighs, dramatic and swinging his legs in his dumb saunter. He knows he looks a bit strange doing it - he’s been told so on numerous occasions by rude people in the past, but there’s only so much he can do about it. His legs just don’t feel quite right when he tries to walk all proper.

“Yes, it’s been so long since I came to your flat,” Aziraphale says, clasping his hands together. “I miss your plants,” he adds, with a pout.

Crowley rolls his eyes, sauntering up the front steps and holding the door for the angel. “You’ve only met them the once.”

“Which is absolutely not enough,” Aziraphale says, making pointed eye contact, and Crowley feels all shuddery even though he’s not cold. 

He says nothing in response to that bit, leading Aziraphale up the stairs to his flat. “Yes, well, you absolutely can not say a word to them. They were acting all _happy_ for themselves, last time, which is unacceptable. Completely ruined my progress with them.”

Behind him, Aziraphale huffs. “They _deserve_ the praise, Crowley. They’re so nice, you’re a wonderful gardener. You don’t need to do all that yelling.”

Crowley waves his door open, rolling his eyes as Aziraphale immediately goes for his plant room. “Don’t say anything nice!” he shouts, refusing to let a smile or any other sort of fond behavior occur on his face. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale replies loudly, but Crowley can hear it as the angel softens his voice and gives a cooing, “Oh, you’ve bloomed _beautifully,_ darling!” 

He simply rolls his eyes.

He ignores Aziraphale’s incredibly unhelpful compliments towards his plants, and instead he wanders over to the wine rack in his otherwise unused kitchen. If he is going to go to sleep with _Aziraphale_ in the vicinity, he needs a drink.

The angel comes back in just as Crowley brings the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He tuts, rolling his eyes as he crosses the room. Once Crowley takes a few gulps, he gently pries the wine away. “Now there’s no need to give yourself a hangover,” he says.

Crowley makes a halfhearted grab for it, but Aziraphale easily pulls it away. Crowley whines. “Noo, gimme it. I need it.”

“You need no such thing,” Aziraphale says, placing the wine back on the rack. “Now, let’s get you to bed. You look awful.”

“That’s not nice, angel,” Crowley grumbles, but he lets Aziraphale nudge him to his bedroom anyway.

“I’m only being honest as a true angel should be,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley turns around as they enter his room, raising an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes dramatically at the upward tilt of the angel’s lips, the ethereal being looking terribly amused at himself. 

“How kind,” Crowley says, placing a hand on his chest. “How blessed I am to have such a - what?” 

He frowns, catching a strange look on Aziraphale’s face as the angel goes oddly rigid. He steps forward. “Angel? What’s wrong?

“What is that doing there?” Aziraphale asks, his voice soft and short at the same time. His eyes are looking somewhere over Crowley’s shoulder, and the demon’s brow furrows as he twists to look, and - 

Oh.

* * *

There’s a tartan thermos on the window sill. It’s empty - at least, there could only be droplets left.

Crowley hasn’t touched that thermos in half a year. He doesn’t _want_ to touch it. 

Well. Sometimes he wants to touch it, but he only wants to touch it in the deep hours of the night, when he feels hot but so, so cold. When there’s sweat clinging to his back, when there’s a chill in his bones, when there’s flames licking behind his eyes. When his throat is raw and so is the fear and the pain that’s clawing its way out of his skin.

When, in the brief seconds after he wakes, all he can remember is losing his best friend, his world.

This is one of those nights.

He lands on his bed hard, and it feels too much like the blast of the firehose, even if it really is just gravity pulling him from his place on the ceiling.

He lets out a pitiful noise that isn’t quite a sob. It’s a mix of it with a scream and a whine and a gasp for air that isn’t there. He shoves himself off of the mattress, kicking away the dark sheets that are trapping his limbs. A raspy _“...-zira-!”_ wormed its way out of his throat as he sinks to the floor. He looks towards the window sill, but he scrambles instead towards the nightstand, and he yanks the drawer open. It nearly falls out, but he shoves his other hand up and digs through it with a shaking hand. His fingers feel a soft, worn fabric and he pulls it to his chest. 

He presses his nose down to the old handkerchief, fingers crumpling the cloth. It brings him closer to the memory of his angel dabbing at his shirt with his trembling hands, the full force of the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t finally hitting him. The tea had sloshed right out of his cup and onto his chest, and he’d given a soft, “ _oh, dear,”_ and Crowley had simply watched his hands dab at the stain. Watched his hands, his wrists that held a living pulse, even if they technically didn’t need one, but it was there, and that meant that Aziraphale was really there, and Crowley breathes in the memory because Aziraphale is still here. 

He is just across the city, probably puttering about dusty books and reorganizing them in a way that will confuse and frustrate customers until they simply give up on what they are trying to find and decide to find whatever they need on Amazon instead. 

Aziraphale is just across the city, he isn’t gone, and as Crowley breathes in the forgotten handkerchief, that thermos on the window sill, sitting in the moonlight, will stay untouched.

* * *

Crowley looks at the thermos, his eyes wide. "Oh. I was… planning to give it back to you," he says, and he’s unsure if he’s lying or not. He doesn’t want to - he hates lying to Aziraphale, but he isn’t sure. He knows he stares at it for too long sometimes.

It’s clear that Aziraphale is unsure, too. His eyes linger on the thermos, his hands twitching. His fingers brace themselves over his waistcoat, and Crowley sort of wants to wrap his own fingers around those hands, tell him he’s okay, that everything’s fine, and Aziraphale doesn’t need to fret about anything, but he knows it won’t work because Aziraphale’s not stupid.

Aziraphale’s eyes suddenly narrow, and with a snap of his fingers, the thermos pops out of existence. Well, it pops across to the nearest landfill, ready to be never touched by a demon or an angel’s hand ever again. “There, now you won’t forget again,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something about his tone. Not snippy, not really, but… final.

Crowley nods slowly. “Right.” He pauses. “It was empty,” he adds, desperate to soothe Aziraphale’s nerves that he can feel - and not through demonic senses, but the angel’s hands are still twisting around each other. “Really, I used it all to kill Ligur. There wasn’t any left.” Because logically, there _hadn’t_ been. Holy water is still water, and it’s been months since Crowley last touched it. Any droplets that could have been left would have evaporated by now. He _knows_ this, somewhere, in one of the wrinkles of his mind, but he also knows that there has been a dangerous feeling in his chest every time he’s looked at that damned windowsill for the past half-year.

Aziraphale softens, his hands going to flatten his coat that doesn’t need flattening. “Good, then,” he says. His gaze doesn’t leave Crowley’s for a moment, and Crowley really can’t tell what’s going through his head. It’s unfair, really, that Aziraphale doesn’t even need a pair of sunglasses to hide from Crowley’s peering eyes that just frustratingly want to _know,_ to _understand._ He adores the angel, and he’s known him for six millennia, but he still can’t always figure out what he’s thinking.

Finally, Aziraphale seems to find what he wants, as he allows a small, quiet smile to form on his lips. “Well, I believe it’s time for you to go to bed, my dear.”

And just like that, there’s that little tendril of anxiety worming its way between Crowley’s ribs. 

Crowley pouts. “You know, it really _is_ fine,” he says. “A little nightmare’s never killed anyone.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Crowley, anything that causes you suffering is something I would very much like to put a stop to if I can help it,” he says.

Crowley… doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he just sort of stands there, gaping like a fish.

“Now! Get comfy,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his hands together as he sits down at the end of the bed, looking ridiculously out of place against the gray sheets in the dark room.

Crowley sighs, trying to act very put upon, even as he snaps his fingers. In less than a moment, his skinny jeans and stylish jacket blink out of existence, leaving a pair of dark leggings and a gray t-shirt in their place. “Alright, happy?” he asks, peering at the floor as his sunglasses are now miraculously folded up on his nightstand.

When Aziraphale doesn’t reply for a moment too long, Crowley glances up.

Aziraphale’s staring at him.

“What?” Crowley asks, crossing his arms self-consciously.

Aziraphale blinks, then looks up to meet his eyes. “Nothing. I was just expecting… oh, I don’t know. Black silk?” he suggests.

Crowley rolls his eyes, taking a long step towards his bed before letting himself flop onto it; the pillows don’t dare to bounce off. 

He hears a chuckle behind him, even as he wiggles around until he’s comfortable. He twists onto his left side. Then, he switches onto his stomach. Then his back. Then his right side. He finally settles back on his stomach, hiking up one of his knees so it's nearly level with his chest, his mouth and cheek sort of smushed against his mattress, the pillow wedged between his skull and the headboard.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale says. “That’s really comfortable?”

“Mm,” Crowley says, before tilting his head. “You don’t hafta just sit there. Read a book or something. V’got books.”

“I thought you didn’t like to read?” Aziraphale asks, amusement clear in his voice. 

Crowley simply mumbles some nonsense. “S’mostly nonfiction. Some biographies. Plant stuff. Star stuff.”

“Thank you, my dear,” says the angel, but the bed never moves, nor does Crowley hear a snap. Still, Crowley would have to twist awkwardly to get a look at the angel, so he sighs and tilts his head back into the mattress. 

He doesn’t know if Aziraphale is actively using his heavenly powers, or if maybe his angelic warmth is just radiating naturally, or if maybe it has nothing to do with angels or heaven and everything to do with Aziraphale, but soon enough, Crowley doesn’t have to focus on keeping his eyes shut any longer as sleep does it for him.

* * *

Crowley’s dark nails scrape at floorboards as he tries to climb to his feet, smoke choking him. Splinters surely find their way into his fingers, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, as he tries to call out. His voice feels raw, trying to push through a throat and mouth full of embers. He barely pushes himself up to his knees, his feet, while his eyes burn.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale!” His gasps burn, his hands screaming as he collapses against a bookshelf. He whispers, “Aziraphale, _please_ …”

He shuts his eyes, looking, aching, for any sign of his angel, but he can’t. He’s always, _always_ been able to sense him, at least a slight shimmer somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, but there’s nothing.

He has nothing.

God, shit, he was _right,_ it was over, and Aziraphale was _gone,_ there wasn’t--

“Crowley?”

Crowley feels the splinters dig underneath his nails as he presses his fingers hard against the bookcase. “Aziraphale?” he whispers, his tongue feeling heavy. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley.”

Crowley hisses, trying to follow the sound but he still can’t sense the angel. “-Zira- ziraphale, I can’t find you,” he says, desperately. He stumbles away from the bookshelf, trying to see him, hear him.

“Crowley, you’re alright. What you’re seeing, it’s not real.”

Crowley sees that damn green book, the prophecy one. He fumbles for it, his body and hands trembling. “But you- then where are you?” he asks. “I have- I have that book you want. With the prophecies. Will that make you come back?” He lifts the book, tries to show it as proof, but a swirling ember floats onto one of its edges. He watches in horror as the pages catch, beginning to smoke.

“No, no, no,” he hisses, juggling the book in his hands as he tries to smother the flame. “No, no, angel, I’ll fix it, please, please just come back.” He slaps the book against his body, trying to pat out the flames. “Please.”

“I’m with you, darling. I’m trying to break through your fear but it’s- oh, dear, it’s so strong.“

“Of- of course, it’s strong!” Crowley shouts, looking around wildly. “Your bloody bookshop is burning and so are you!” 

“No, no, Crowley, I’m right next to you. Remember, I wanted to help you? With your nightmares? This is just another one. We're in your flat, I wanted to stay here so I could help you sleep. But your fear is too strong, I can't push through it to plant the pleasant dreams. I need you to listen to me."

"My flat," Crowley mumbles, squinting as he looks around. “My flat?” The flaming book finally sputters, but the pages are half-burnt. “When…”

“There we go, yes. We went to lunch, that new Asian fusion place you pointed out last week, and then we came over to your flat, so you could get some rest.” Then, his voice grows fond and giggly. “I said hello to your plants, despite your protests. Told them they looked lovely.”

Crowley smiles automatically at the words, and for a moment, he sees Aziraphale’s image flicker in front of him. It’s gone as soon as it comes, but he reaches for it anyway. “Aziraphale,” he whispers.

“There you go, dear, I’m right here. You’re doing so good, just a little bit further now, and I can give you whatever dream you wish, or even let you go dreamless if you’d like.”

“You’re… here,” Crowley says, clutching the book tight. “You’re still here?” he clarifies, looking at where the projection had been. “They didn’t take you? You didn’t leave?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says, and it is so, _so_ soft, despite the fact that his voice is projected all around him. “My darling, I would _never_ leave you. I _promise,_ I will never let them pull us apart.”

The conviction in the words is completely solid, stronger than the core of the Earth and stronger than Heaven and Hell’s forces combined, and Crowley feels the honesty like a blow to his stomach. His hand reaches for his side, and his other hand clutches the book even tighter to his chest, as if the angel himself resides within its charred pages. Crowley repeats the words over and over in his mind, squeezing his eyes shut, and for a moment, he becomes numb to the heat surrounding him.

_I would never leave you. I promise._

_I would never leave you. I promise._

_I promise._

For a moment, he feels a warmth around him, but it isn’t the invasive, sneering heat of the fire, but instead it feels like soft cushions and downy feathers mixed with… love. He leans into the bookshelf behind him, letting the good warmth surround him like a hug. He shuts his eyes, and he presses himself into the feeling, reaching for Aziraphale - because that’s what it has to be, it has to be Aziraphale, nobody in all the planes of reality could feel like such a solid manifestation of love and warmth as him.

Finally, the roaring heat fades to a simmer, and then it disappears completely. He opens his eyes again and he’s in the Garden. He still feels the faintly pulsing soft warmth, and it feels not unlike a good bask in the sun, although he’s in the shade. He blinks a few times, looking at the familiar flora that he hasn’t seen in so long, although it’s… sideways? 

He frowns, orienting himself as he realizes he’s lying down. When he tilts his head downwards, he’s wearing a dark, flowing garb, similar to what he’d worn that day on the wall. His auburn hair is splayed beside him, contrasting the lush green grass starkly. 

When he tilts his head back up, his gaze falls across thick arms, where one is bent above his head to hold a book. That… doesn’t quite make sense because they’re in Eden, and books shouldn’t be invented yet, but then he feels a soft scritch on the back of his head, and any thoughts about illogical objects ditch his head as he realizes the other arm he’d seen was connected to a hand in his hair. Just… gently scritching, and sometimes just running fingertips gently across his scalp. 

Crowley melts, feeling boneless as the hand drags out a lock of red hair before slowly curling it around a finger. He fights the urge to shut his eyes, instead reaching a tentative hand up to gently nudge the book aside.

The book goes willingly, and past it, he sees the double chin of his angel as Aziraphale looks fondly down at him, a smile curling his lips. His hand slowly, gently releases the curl and returns to softly caressing his scalp. 

“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley asks, his voice low and croaky.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, his smile growing wider, causing his cheeks to rise and his eyes to do a nice squinty thing. The warm, basking feeling magnifies. “Are you comfortable?”

Crowley, for the first time in a very long time, allows himself to fully relax. He closes his eyes, leaning his head into Aziraphale’s hand. He turns slightly, nuzzling his nose into the angel’s belly. “Mm,” he hums, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says, and after a moment, Crowley hears the rustling of pages again as the angel returns to his book.

“Th’nk you, angel,” Crowley sighs, feeling the heaviness of his eyelids. “F’r coming back.”

Crowley hears Aziraphale inhale sharply, but the belly he rests against doesn’t move. When the angel speaks, it sounds strange. Distant, kind of echoey. It reminds him a bit of surround sound, actually, coming from the angel beside him but also coming from every atom that surrounds them.

“Of course, dear. I always will.”

* * *

Crowley blinks his eyes open, a yawn already overtaking his face. He freezes for a moment as he takes in his position.

Crowley himself is no longer in the position he’d been in when he’d gone to sleep; instead, he’s a bit upright, both knees tucked somewhat near his chest. He’s turned sideways, his feet pointed towards one side of the bed instead of towards the foot of it. His arms are also tucked near his chest, folded in between his knees and his abdomen. What made him pause is the fact that there are arms around him, enveloping his torso loosely. His head is no longer on the mattress, instead leaning gently against a soft chest. Below his ear, he can hear a soft beat that is unnecessary but incredibly comforting.

He tilts his head up, and despite being able to predict what he would see, he still feels every bit of air flee his lungs.

Aziraphale’s eyes are closed, his pale eyelashes fanning gently across his cheeks. His dandelion hair is resting against the headboard, and the lines in his face are relaxed in a way that eases them, leaving only a few crinkles around his eyes. His chin is folded slightly as his head is drooped. His breathing is soft and even, relaxed. His arms are wrapped around Crowley’s upper body - it’s clear that at one point, his grip was tighter, as Crowley is leaning flush against his body, but it has since relaxed so they are loosely wrapped around his waist. The warmth that he remembers faintly from his dream is enveloping the demon, though less surrounding and overwhelming, but rather emitting directly from the angel himself. Light from the window adds to the effect, the sun shining quietly across them both.

Aziraphale isn’t snoring, which Crowley knows he does when he’s properly fallen asleep, even if he’s only done it a couple times in the demon’s presence - usually in his armchair with a book in his lap, a mug of cocoa gone cold sitting next to him. This makes him figure that the angel is probably just dozing.

“Angel?” he whispers, carefully moving a hand so it’s barely touching the angel’s chest - which, it appears, is covered in a soft, beige sweater, instead of his normal waistcoat and jacket. There’s not even a bowtie.

The angel’s brow furrows as his eyelids twitch a few times before blinking open. When his eyes land on Crowley, he feels the warmth double. As soon as their eyes meet, the angels’ sparkle with a gentle fondness that he only remembers seeing a few times - one of which being when they toasted the world at the Ritz.

“Crowley,” he says, and it comes out rumbly as his voice works through his chest. He’s smiling, and it makes Crowley’s own heart beat a bit fast. Aziraphale’s arms tighten for a moment, squeezing Crowley just slightly. Then, Aziraphale pauses. 

“Is this alright?” he asks.

Crowley thinks about it for a moment, feels it for a moment. The warmth, the softness, the comfort. “Nnyeah,” says the demon, before carefully placing his head back on the angel’s chest, his cheek smushing against the warm sweater.

Aziraphale lets out a soft breath, and Crowley doesn’t know if it’s relief or not. He does know that the arms around him tighten once again, wrapping him in what can only be called a hug. He melts into it.

Still, his change in position does trigger his curiosity. “S’what happened?” he asks, his words slightly altered by his face’s position nestled into a warm body. 

“You gave me quite a fright,” Aziraphale admits, one of his hands twitching, and Crowley thinks about his dream - the good one, that is. Thinks about the way his mind had imagined fingers carding through his hair. Wonders if it would feel the same if it happened in reality, or if it would feel even better.

“I was sitting at the foot of the bed - you fell asleep very quickly, you must have been so exhausted,” he says, before his voice begins to sound _guilty,_ which is absolutely ridiculous, because the angel has nothing to feel sorry about. “You seemed alright for a couple of hours, so I didn’t use anything besides a small blessing for comfort - I thought that would be enough. But then… well, then you started squirming, and you began mumbling. I tried to place better dreams then, but I guess at that point, the nightmare had already started - you just didn’t begin showing the signs until then. If I had just used the bigger miracle from the start, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but-”

Crowley shakes his head - it’s not very effective, considering he only has one way to shake, but it gets the point across, so the angel pauses. “S’not your fault,” Crowley says. “It would’ve worked on a human. I think… I think my… body? Brain? Well, whatever, is just a bit resistant, bein’ demonic and everything. Takes a stronger miracle to actually do something. You didn’t know.” 

Aziraphale is still frowning, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he adjusts his arms so he can tug Crowley just a little bit closer, while still allowing him to be comfortable. “Well, so when I tried to place the good dreams - you know, the standard ‘whatever you like best,’ but I could _feel_ the resistance. It wasn’t taking. So I had to reach into your mind, and I’m terribly sorry, dearest, I know it’s quite the breach of privacy, but you’d begun to thrash by then, and-”

Crowley just shook his head again. His fingers curled around the fabric over Aziraphale’s heart. “Mm-mm. I trust you, it’s fine,” he says, glancing up to look at the angel’s face.

Aziraphale’s body relaxes, and a small smile grows on his lips, something not quite sad but almost there, mixed with a fondness and a touch of relief. “Well,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I… I had to reach around your fear, it was… it was so powerful, and I couldn’t banish it, I had to get to you. I was able to find your most surface-level thoughts, I didn’t want to pry any more than I had to, so I focused on connecting to those and talking to you. You were very deep, so it took a while for you to really hear me. I feared I wasn’t getting to you at all, which is - well, I guess that’s when I got closer. I was so worried. It took about thirty minutes before you heard me. You were so afraid, and I needed to do something. Eventually, you were able to hear me, and - oh, dear, I’m _so_ sorry. I’m sorry I left you alone, I’m sorry, I promise I’m never letting that happen again, I-”

Crowley sits up quickly, hushing him. His angel is teary, his eyes shining, and Crowley _hates_ it. “It was an accident!” he argues. “I know that, I know, angel, it’s just my shitty subconscious, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m okay, it’s alright,” he rambles, lifting both his hands now to cup Aziraphale’s face, his thumbs automatically working to smear away the few tears that are escaping. 

Aziraphale breathes shakily, his shoulders quaking as he shudders through deep breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut, leaning forward into Crowley’s palms. Slowly, he begins to nod. “Yes. Yes, you’re right,” he says. One of his arms releases the demon, reaching up to carefully wrap around one of Crowley’s wrists. After letting himself breathe for a few seconds, he opens his eyes and looks purposefully at Crowley’s. “We’re alright. And we’re going to _keep_ it that way, I promise you. I will _always_ come back to you,” he says firmly.

Crowley swallows, before he nods. “Okay,” he says, and it nestles in his chest in a way that makes it feel more solid. Less shaky, less uncertain. He’s pushing himself to believe it, to allow himself that.

“Good,” says Aziraphale. He stares at him for a moment, before giving a shaky laugh and saying, “Now come here.” He wraps his arms back around the demon, one hand resting on the back of one shoulder, the other curled up to cradle the back of the demon’s head. He gently tugs him back close, nestling Crowley’s head into the crook of his neck. 

Crowley allows his own wet laugh, tucking his nose into Aziraphale’s soft skin.

After a few minutes of quiet breathing (and a few sniffles), Crowley forces himself to suck in a deep breath. After slowly releasing it, he lets a hand slide up to rest over Aziraphale’s heart again. 

“I love you, you know,” he says, whispers it. 

The arms around him tighten even further. “I do, I do, and I love you so much, my dearest.” He feels a soft pressure on top of his head. A kiss. “ _So_ much.”

Crowley smiles, a soft but wide thing, and buries himself further into his angel’s neck.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic! If you notice any mistakes, please let me know. My tumblr is gaystreetsmarts, if you wanna talk about good omens or other things.  
> Kudos + comments are v much appreciated <3


End file.
